And a Step Before I Crash and Dream

Is it wrong of me to feel sometimes that poetry is dreadfully pointless;
To want some things to be told in black and white and then be left to hurt and heal;
Is it wrong of me to say what is true and cruel;
To not gift wrap in analogy and make shiny what is dull;
Is it wrong of me to believe and yet not detest that simple is naive;
To know that all naive is pure, and pure good;
Is it wrong of me appreciate the crystal clarity of the crude and bare;
To not ponder and wonder and rearrange the words of the poet to mean what was never intended;

Is wrong of me to want, to wish, just once, just this one little time, to not have miles to go before I sleep;
To try not to stumble as I take a step, and crash and dream.

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